


Respite

by gloriouscacophony (KatrinaKay)



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 - SFW [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Crossover, Cuddling & Snuggling, Forbidden Love, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Separations, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKay/pseuds/gloriouscacophony
Summary: Ineffable Husbands Week - Day 2: Rain/Storm/DownpourIn which Aziraphale and Crowley, professionals with a particular set of skills and a unique relationship in their shadowy world, meet again at the Continental (John Wick crossover).





	Respite

  


  


_But for now we stay so far_  
_ 'Til our lonely limbs collide_  
_ I can't keep you in these arms_  
_ So I keep you in my mind_

_ —“You and I (Stripped)”, PVRIS _

  


They meet every so often at the Continental—usually in London, but in New York, Rome, and Paris occasionally. They’re well-known to the staff and regulars, and for more than their professional efficiency.

Aziraphale pushes inside against the gusty wind, the collar of his pristine ivory car coat turned up against the downpour. It’s a typical fall day in London, gloomy and damp, but the Continental’s lobby is bright and inviting, a welcome sight after his latest assignment. He plonked one of his gold coins (embellished with a pair of wings, the sigil of his particular organization, The Archangels) and Charon greets him with a thin but pleased smile. The two share a fondness for collecting rare books, and often shared leads for a particular volume the other might be searching for.

“Hello, sir, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Did you have any success with that bookseller in Italy?”

Aziraphale shrugs off his damp coat carefully, attempting to keep the rain from the polished marble floor. “Not yet. It’s been a busy week, but I’m quite interested in that first edition Wilde you said he might have. Hopefully I’ll have some time while I’m here to inquire.” Charon hands him his room key (431—the concierge knows he prefers higher floors). “Is he here yet?”

“Waiting for you in the lounge. I’ll have your things brought up to your room. Have a pleasant stay, sir.”

“Thank you, Charon. How could I not, with such excellent service?” 

Crowley’s puffing away at a cigar when he arrives in the smoking lounge. The assassin is wearing an exquisitely luxurious smoking jacket in a deep burgundy, a rare deviation from what Aziraphale knows as his usual wardrobe of greys and blacks. A glass of bourbon (also an unusual choice for the man) sits on the small table beside his armchair. He’s watching the rain pour in sheets down the floor-length glass windows, shrouded in a haze of fragrant smoke.

Before Aziraphale gets near, Crowley has already sensed him somehow. “Ah, hello angel. Fancy seeing you here. Have a seat, get a drink. No better place to be when it’s raining cats and dogs.”

Aziraphale meets the bartender’s eyes, nodding that he wants his usual, and collapses into the other armchair with a sigh. “What a week. Feels like I haven’t had the chance to just sit in ages.”

Crowley’s head flops over, the man watching him from behind his ever-present dark glasses. 

“Are those new?”

“What, the glasses? Yeah, yeah, got ‘em last month in...erm, Rome I think. Thought I’d mix things up with a tortoiseshell frame this time.”

“Well, you look lovely. They suit you.” The bartender deposits Aziraphale’s cocktail (a Lady in Blue, a sweet blue concoction garnished with flower petals) on the table and slips away, deliberately not noticing the faint blush left along Crowley’s cheeks by the compliment.

“Cheers, then.” They clink their glasses together and sip, watching the rain in a companionable silence that’s vastly different from the tense air that usually accompanies acquaintances in their profession, even here on neutral ground. (It’s rare to form true friendships in their line of work, and neither would admit that that’s what this is, but everyone who knows them can see.)

“Everything all right, then?” Aziraphale asks a dozen minutes later, when the lull of the rain and the strong drink and the plush rest of the armchair have eased the chill and stress from his bones.

“You know I can’t talk about it,” Crowley replies, feigning a laguid air as he puffs away at his cigar, making the coals glow at its end. But Aziraphale can read the stress in his posture, the falseness he can see right through after years of knowing the red-haired man. 

“Ah, work then. I understand. Is there...anything I can do?” he says softly in concern. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” They walk a thin line, and this is one of those things that reminds them both of their situation. As one of the Daemon, Crowle’s...affinity for a certain Archangel is ignored, if not accepted, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the job. The Archangels take a similar view of Aziraphale’s fraternizing with a rival, and so they meet here, at the Continental, where there are no rival organizations, only elite professionals with a certain set of skills in seek of a civilized respite from the backstabbing and bloodshed.

They lapse back into a comfortable, companionable silence, at ease beside each other here as they cannot be anywhere else—or with anyone else. 

The bar is almost empty when they say their good nights and stumble off to their rooms, at least for a few moments. It might be more practical to have adjoining suites, but Charon knows they find that arrangement too transparent, so he always gives them rooms directly above and below one another, Aziraphale always on the higher floor. Without asking, he knows Crowley is in 331, so when he’s showered and dressed in his silk pajamas and pulled on a dressing gown and slippers, he pads down the carpeted hallway to the stairwell.

The door is unlocked, and Crowley is waiting at the window, watching the rain drizzle behind the tinted, bullet- and missile-proof glass. Up here, the sounds of late-night traffic are more audible than the ground floor, but muffled enough to serve as soothing background noise. Crowley has donned sleek black shorts that hug the sharp angles of his hips, and the short strands of his fiery hair are dark, still damp from his own shower. When Aziraphale pads up beside him, he smells of wood smoke and petrichor.

“Hello again, angel.”

Aziraphale pats his arm fondly and sighs, kicking off his slippers and slipping out of his dressing gown as he stacks the pillows how he likes on the bed and leans against them. He’s barely settles when Crowley slips over from the window and entwines around him, water-chilled skin shivering at the heat of his body. Aziraphale hums in contentment at the embrace, bringing a hand to ruffle through Crowley’s hair and slide in reassuring, firm strokes across his back.

(They’d been doing this so long that neither could remember how it really started, but it had begun with late-night debates about music and handguns and plant care that had outlasted the bar’s open hours, so they’d begun staying up later and later in one of their rooms to continue the conversation. And then one night, full of wine and mirth and exhausted by the mental and physical toll of their latest assignments, they’d collapsed in a pile on the floor of Aziraphale’s room. Crowley had nearly died of embarrassment when they’d woke to find him tangled against Aziraphale’s side, having instinctively sought the reassurance of his soft warmth in the night. They hadn’t seen each other for months after that, but Aziraphale had gone to his room when they were both in Prague and pointedly wrapped his arms around Crowley as he made to leave for the night. Crowley had frozen in shock, then melted into the contact with a sound that revealed far too much about how touch-starved he was.)

Tonight, Aziraphale slips off his companion's glasses, and Crowley buries his head into the crook of the other man’s neck, savoring the silken slide of the pajama shirt’s collar and the floral scent of the Continental’s soap. There’s a thin white scar here, under Aziraphale’s ear, made by an insane diplomat who’d gone rogue and kidnapped the children of several local political figures to use as leverage in his schemes for power. (Crowley had never been more fond of Aziraphale than when he heard the story. Although the diplomat’s fate was far less pleasant than the reunion of the children with their distraught parents.)

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispers, pressing his lips in the ghost of a kiss across Crowley’s head, so much less than he wants to bestow but all he can give. They both know the consequences of the life they’ve chosen, and for now, this is all they can have: their nights in the Continental, stolen moments of joy amidst death and betrayal and machinations. They cannot trust or love, they think, but as much as either can, they have faith in each other.

Outside, the rainstorm slows to a drizzle, and soon Crowley is drifting to sleep, held close as Aziraphale adjusts the sheets over them and presses another kiss to his companion’s face, serene in rest. In the morning, he’ll slip away to his room to dress, pay a brief visit to peruse the Sommelier’s latest wares, and depart, headed to an assignment in Oslo.

But for now, he cradles Crowley protectively, guarding a precious weight as he too sleeps, and dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this AU in mind for a future fic, because of course Crowley would rock John Wick's look, and then I was in love with the idea of focusing the story around the rain and how soothing it is to fall asleep in a warm, comfy bed to the sound of a storm. (I haven't seen John Wick: Chapter 3, alas, but it's on my list for a future movie night.)


End file.
